Coming Back
by RosieO'Hara
Summary: Post-Fall. Sherlock and John's journey starting directly after Sherlocks 'death'. Just a friendship fic and nothing more. Rated for a little blood and swearing but nothing worse than the show itself.
1. Chapter 1

AN: So I wanted to get this out, but this is just 1 page of the 22 I have written so I am really hoping to get this finished and written soon. Hope you like it. Sorry it is so small but I've got to work in 30 minutes and wrote this on the tube from my phone. Sorry.

I saw him fall. I saw him die. I saw the body of my flatmate…. No, best friend lifeless on the pavement crumpled like a doll. Lifeless. In the days since his death he was proclaimed a fraud, a fake in the eyes of society.

My mind is numb still in shock that he jumped. I could do nothing but watch as they took his body inside and corner off the scene. When Scotland Yard showed up I noticed it was Lestrade and the others. They didn't know.

"John, what are you doing here? Are you all right?" Greg asked while walking toward the curb I was sitting on. My throat was dry and choked closed, I couldn't bring myself to tell Greg. I manage to shake my head.

"What's happened? Where is Sherlock?" He tried again. Still nothing. He can't bring the words to his mouth; he can't say 'Sherlock is gone. It was Sherlock.'

"No, God, NO! It can't be. Lestrade!" Donavan called from the street corner. Her face was pale and her eyes were full of sorrow.

"What Donavan? Sherlock is gone," she whispered.

"What do you mean gone? Where did he go John?" Greg asked. Sally knelt down, "Lestrade, Sherlock is dead. He was the jumper."

"What? NO! Why, no, just no."

"I'm sorry."

That was two days ago. Lestrade took me home with him because I couldn't face Baker St. and his wife took the kids to her brother's house in Essex. Lestrade thought of Sherlock as a son after helping Sherlock detox and then start helping with the case, but he failed at protecting Sherlock from the accusations that he couldn't ignore any longer. Lestrade promised to help clear Sherlock's name.

My mind was numb, uncaring and unfunctional. Mycroft came and brought me to identify the body, but I couldn't bring myself to look. I was trying to preserve the image of Sherlock alive in my mind. Mycroft confirmed the body of his only brother, tears streaking down his cheeks silently falling into a handkerchief held over his mouth, but he never made a sound. I thought I would never see Mycroft show any sign that he loved Sherlock, but bloody hell I never want to see Mycroft's broken form again. I know that he blames himself for Sherlock's death because he told Moriarty. Molly wasn't at the morgue, which I didn't think she would be, but she did leave her condolences with her boss.

"John, Mummy and I are making all of the arrangements for everything in what we think Sherlock would have wanted. The wake is in two days. I had your uniform cleaned and will be by to pick you up then. I'm sorry." Mycroft says, leaving the morgue and tossing his umbrella into the large rubbish bin by the door.

The black car sits outside Lestrade's flat. Mycroft stands beside it and holds a garment bag. "John," he says handing the bag over. His outfit makes him look more like Sherlock than he ever did because they more a similar to the style Sherlock would have worn and the plum shirt was very similar to Sherlock's favourite shirt he owned. His stature was more 'Sherlockian' and he looked as though he had lost too much weight in the short time since his brother's death and his eyes are red rimmed and surrounded by puffy dark skin from the lack of sleep.

I slide in the car, "John, this is my mother." Mycroft says pointing to the short woman with corkscrew black hair and pale skin that was sitting where Anthea would have sat.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Holmes."

"Thank you John, really for everything. Sherly was the happiest and most 'healthy' when he moved in with you. I really have to thank you for that. I know that he saw you as a friend, so thank you for making him happy and keeping him safe."

"I didn't do well enought appearantly." I say. I miss Sherlock.

* * *

SOO my Previous document went a bit haywire and cut off half of the chapter. Sorry. I've given it a spot to end that isn't exactly where it was before, but the next chapter will just be longer than I previously expected. So it all works out. Forgive me? Review with ideas, and aren't you all excited for whenever they plan to show season 3! I really want to see what they do with Sherlock and John and how exactly that all works out because I am trying to avoid how sherlock survived, but I do have a theory on how he did. I also think Moriarty is dead, I mean Sherlock can tell a fake gun out of anywhere and probably a blank round as well, so unless Moriarty is able to avoid a gun shot wound to the head and still survive that in my mind he is dead.- ROSIE... and again, sorry about all of that.


	2. Chapter 2

So here is Chapter 2. It's a wee bit longer than the first, but again i am writing this at a very awkward time. Hope to have 3 up soon though. Thanks for reading.-Rosie

PS- writing this was hard I am not the emotional type, but i did my best.

* * *

We get to the hall before everyone else to give us time to change and welcome everyone else in. The hall fills quickly with friends of Sherlock's, co-workers, and what must be family. The most surprising though, was Lestrade and others from NSY. Lestrade always thought of Sherlock as a son or apprentice after he spent years trying to make Sherlock independent from drugs, but the others generally thought Sherlock was a fraud or a 'freak' because he never took the time to explain or he was generally an arse to them, so them showing up for his wake was a huge surprise. Molly comes as well, but she stays toward the back with the others from Bart's mourning silently. One of the last people to arrive was Mrs. Hudson who was distraught and had to sit with Mummy for a god half hour before calming down because Sherlock was her saviour and most importantly, her adoptive son.

Sherlock, I miss you, you bloody bastard. Sherlock we all cared for you, why did you do it?

Once the doors closed and everyone sat, Mycroft takes the podium next to the sleek black casket that is closed, encasing my best friend, "Hello, everyone. My name is Mycroft Holmes and I was Sherlock's older brother. I want to keep this short because he was always telling me I talk too much, but firstly I would like to thank you all for coming, because let's face it he was a git to all of you multiple times before, I know because he was to all of us. Secondly, I want to say that he was never a fraud, he may have been a little far-fetched to believe, but it was always right. I know he never liked to explain, but he never made anything up, let alone hire an actor to kill people. What actor would kill people willingly anyway. All those who believed Sherlock as a fraud, well, you only believed it because you wanted to and it was planted in your brain by Moriarty and for that I am sorry. Secondly, not many of you know this, but Sherlock was human and he cared for all of you. He may have been terrible to you all of the time, but he never let any of you get hurt if he could stop it," Mycroft said, looking over the crowd.

"There was always times like the time when that American fell out their window because he hit Mrs. Hudson or when he stayed up for days searching for Lestrade, and then took down about 20 guards and climbed through the skylights to get you out of there. Hudson, he thought of you as a mum when ours was gone and had no idea what Sherlock was doing. Lestrade, you WERE his father, when ours died when we were younger Sherlock never fully moved on, but you stepped in and he admired you for it, and he often said that you were the least idiotic person at Scotland Yard. So you see, Sherlock cared for all of you, and he was not a Sociopath, despite what he told everyone. I ask of you one thing, just please don't forget my little brother." Mycroft says, shedding a tear and he walks down, kisses the coffin and getting next to their mum again.

I make my way up to say what I need to say, tears already threaten to brim over in my eyes, "Damn it Sherlock," I start. "I want to say two things, Firstly, you were my best friend and you always will be because I can never forget our adventures. And secondly, at first when I moved in I wanted to kill you. I hated waking up to horrible violin music or gun shots, or that one time someone was sneaking through my window to kidnap you. I hated how all of my dates were horrible because you would deduce them or get us kidnapped or you would scare them away with amazing accuracy, I hated the body pats everywhere or the acid stains on my shoes from your experiments. You were really hard to live with, but you were my favourite flat mate I have ever had. Those cases and long bouts of boredom made me grow into your best friend and sometimes butler, but mostly a friend. I don't know what I will do without you, but I guess I will start with proving your innocence. I will miss you forever, my best friend, my brother. Goodbye, Sherlock."

The walk back to the front row was the hardest thing I have ever done, tear were falling feely, but I couldn't bring myself to touch or look at the coffin. Much of the audience was tearing up or was already in tears, sniffling and leaning on others, finally realising that Sherlock didn't really hate them.

There is no mass because Sherlock was not in the least bit religious, but there was a small ceremony at the cemetery. My mind is blank, unfunctioning. Sherlock is dead, gone forever. There will be no more body parts, no more violins, no more walls being shot, and no more Sherlock. My limbs feel heavy, but not as heavy as my heart. I can't bring myself to look at the casket or the headstone. I can't talk and I can't cry anymore. My body has gone back to being numb, useless without its other part.

I just want to go home, wake up to find a severed hand next to my left over fish and chips, Sherlock in his favourite chair, refusing to eat and screaming bored. But that will never happen again because Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is gone forever. Sherlock is… Damn, Sherlock I miss you.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Review on what you think. Thanks. Laters- Rosie


	3. Chapter 3

Ok, so I had to channel my inner Sherlock, and that was a bit hard and a bit easy because I am not a bloody genious, but I do have a personality that is kind of snarky and sarcastic, but this is a softer Sherlock who is sad and exhausted and all that good stuff, but he is going to get a little more BAD ARSE PISSED OFF SHERLOCK later.-Rosie.

PS-I OWN NOTHING, well other than my own characters and original ideas, but if I did own Sherlock, I would have so much fun with his disguises because with him there is almost no limit. Wish i could have acting skills like his, though i can do a few convincing accents.

* * *

Sherlock's POV, fall plus 2 hours.

The world was dark and fuzzy, colours blending into one another and shapes distorting against the background. It smelt of antiseptic and the coppery twinge that could only be blood, my blood. I keep my body still and quiet, insuring that no one will find me 'alive.' I hear nothing and only risk opening my eyes slightly every few minutes. I am in the morgue, my plan worked, but of course it did, and only Molly and trusted parts of the homeless network know that I am actually living.

I lay on the cold slab for what seems like hours, in my mind palace, deducing where to start unravelling and killing off Moriarty's web. He may be dead, but his web is very much alive and thriving. "Sherlock, everyone is gone and I have covered all of the windows. Let's get you cleaned up," Molly says, helping him sit straight. Pain flows from his torso and shoulder, nothing broken, dislocated shoulder and a large bruise on his left side from falling awkwardly on it. His head is bruised and bleeding, nothing bad, a minor concussion and a cut on his hairline.

"Thank you Molly, Just pop my shoulder back in and give me a few plasters on my head then I must be on my way," I say slumping onto an open spot on her desk. My shirt is already off from the A&E making it easier for Molly to prod at my shoulder. She sighs, grabs a handful of wooden popsicle sticks and binds them together before handing them to me, "I can't give you any pain meds that would actually help and not harm your concussion, so bite on this. Sorry"

I bite down hard, "Ready, Sherlock?" She asks, I only nod and bite down harder and harder as she grabs my arm and pain radiates through my arm and chest. I retreat into my palace, trying not to scream. I allow myself a groan before hearing a sickening crack as the bone brunches back into its socket, alleviating the most excruciating part of the pain and turning into a dull throb. She stays silent as she puts a few plasters on my forehead, silent tears going down her cheeks. I raise my thumb and wipe them away, "Molly, don't cry. This is helping me and I will be back. I'm sorry you have to help me with this. It is unfair of me to ask, but I had no one else."

"Sherlock, its fine. I'm just sad that anyone, let alone you, has to suffer like this. I am honoured that you asked me though. I look forward to seeing you again. Goodbye, Sherlock," Molly says, handing me a bag and opening the bathroom door.

She had a large flannel, a pair of jeans, scissors, hair dye, trainers, new IDs and money packed into the bag that she stole from Baker Street. I ease into the jeans that are too big for me, but make me look less lean, and the flannel that fills out my shoulders and would never be found in my own closet before cutting my hair short and adding the dye to it and my eye brows. It is red; the farthest colour from my own raven black and now has lost its curl for a softer wave that I gel a bit to what Molly calls a fashionable 'quiff'. I am still pale and can't hide those cheekbones, but the hair and clothes make me look a bit less 'anorexic' and more 'tragically skinny'. Molly insists on a black sling for my arm before helping me shrug on a thick coat and my shoes.

"Goodbye Molls, Thank you, Molly Hooper, you were always a friend and you always mattered," I say.

"Where will you go?"

"Can't say for sure, I will send you mail with news though."

"Sherlock, my place is always open to you if you need a couch or food, or even a friend."

"Thank you. Molly, look after John for me?"

"Course. Bye."

"Thanks, well I guess this is goodbye, Molly Hooper," I say as I sneak out the back doors of the morgue and up the ramp to the alley-way leading away from Bart's leaving Molly with a sincere smile.

My newest home is a fully stocked warehouse that was abandoned in the 60s. It has boarded up windows and one functioning door, complete with a mattress, loo, sink, heating plate, and every kind of weapon imaginable.

"'Ello Mr. Holmes. I got everything you asked for set up," Dutch a middle aged homeless man from Essex says while locking the door.

"Thank you Dutch. You may leave whenever, but keep a trail on John for me?"

"Sure thing."

I change my appearance again, this time a T shirt paired with padded jeans and a leather coat. My hair I keep the same, and I wait for the beard to come in and soften my cheeks. I wait and plan. I plan and dig into Moriarty's network. It doesn't take long to find the names of the shooters, but it takes almost a week for the disguise to grow in and for my body to heal enough to pursue them.

I miss John.

* * *

Reviews are always greatly appreciated. Thanks for reviewing, and i cried a bit writing the story as well, but well... yeah, well thanks for reviewing(you know who you are) and I got this up sooner just because you did review. Thanks.

Laters, Cheers-Rosie


	4. Chapter 4

One week is all it took. I am unrecognisable and well provided for the long journey a head of me. My new ID is 'Lt. Owen Ruttigre', a disguise that will surely get me across security quicker than most and still allow my weaponry. The first sniper is in Dublin working as ex-IRA and doing consulting jobs for Moriarty and other high-profit criminal parties during his off time. He was hired for a job to kill a Detective that saw something he should have kept quiet this week.

I take a boat across from Scotland as I try to avoid the tight security measures of the air travel industry. The trip is long and cold, but I sit and plan. I arrive in Dublin and find the Detective's schedule. The shooter's best chance would be to fire after he leaves work through the open doors from a steeple across the street. So that is where I hide and wait.

I wait all day, waiting for the sniper to show. 'BORED' I focus on the task at hand and calm my mind in a way brought on by the loss of the lives of my friends can do. I sit in the deep corner watching a spider make a new web, as I am destroying the greatest web, Moriarty's.

The man shows up around four and starts to set up his gun and scopes. He is a short bloke, about 1.6 metres. He also has the beginning of a pot belly and jowls forming on his jaw line. He can't be more than forty, but his profession, utter lack of hygiene and health habits make him slower and older. An easy catch.

He doesn't see me hiding in the far opposite corner, behind the staircase that winds up to the steeple's top. I don't have to deduce that he is an idiot because it is in plain sight. He lines up his shot and waits, as do I. I would rather not kill these en, but it is the only way to make sure that they will never come back to be the villain's pawns against me.

I line up my shot for a quick death, right through his heart. He lines up his shot and puts his finger on the trigger. I fire, he flexes and the bullet buries itself in the marble front of the building after mine buries itself in the man's heart.

It took me one week.

* * *

The second sniper, wasn't even a sniper for profession. He was a con artist who was assigned the job by pure accident after Moriarty killed off the other sniper he had in place. The man could shoot and shoot well, but he never covered his tracks well. I find him in Edinburgh impersonating a cleric and scamming funds from a few local charities in a façade that he was giving money for a new housing complex for homeless children. I consider him harmless to lives, but harmful to wellbeing.

I don't dawdle on this shooter. I don't wait; not knowing how long he will be in my radar for. I have Dutch call in an anonymous tip about him and wait to see him arrested and give the background story on him to make his tip to jail a one way street.

His downfall took longer because I had to track down his latest movements and deduce where he would strike next. It had been a month.

Two major parts of Moriarty's empire were now gone, bringing down huge chunks of it with them as Collateral. Now for the third.

* * *

His name is Sebastian Moran. He was Moriarty's second in command; he was my John. By killing him; I will kill the Empire for good. Thing is, Moran is a tricky person to catch; always, unknowingly, one step ahead of me. His hits becoming more and more dangerous and risky as the time passes.

Months pass as I trace Moran across France and Europe. He never returns to the UK; forcing me to run around the european countryside, but not fret about John's or my friend's lives just yet. Moran always works alone with new disguises and new patterns, making him virtually untraceable, but he leaves a distinct line of dead bodies of diplomats and power players in his path, a like person following breadcrumbs I track him down.

It is now Mid-December and Moran has made his way back to London. I don't know what his new target is, but it is someone big and important. I know he will strike soon, so I never cease to have someone tracking him or following him through surveillance videos or by foot. I choose to strike late at night in a park near Brixton.

I sit on the park bench waiting for him to come by. I see his silhouette pass through the gates and start towards the far end of the park. I don't follow immediately, but at a safe distance. I am restless and tired fo the disguises the awful living conditions, and the frankly terrible IDs. My body is tired as well, my mind a bit fuzzy from the lack of care and my bones weary from the constant pressure put upon them. I trudge up all of my strength raise the gun and fire.

Moran goes down, but is clearly still alive. I missed. I raise my gun again to fire, and pull the trigger, the bullet jams. Moran scrambles for his gun, like I scramble for my gun I have in my inside pocket. He beats me, but I dive to the ground in the final attempt at life.

'BAM' is the first thing I hear as I jump out of the way. Searing pain arches its way from my thigh and into my head and radiating outwards. I block the pain for long enough to lie still on the ground. Moran walks up to me to check my pulse. I can smell blood that is both his and mine, but mostly his. He reaches down and i grip my gun, turn over and shoot. 'BAM'

My bullet races straight through his chest, killing him instantly. His body drops in front of me as I push myself up to a sitting position. I run my hand through my now short natural colour hair and pull on my hat and tuck my gun back into the large jacket I am wearing. I pull out the hideous scarf I bought in Berlin and tie it tightly against my thigh. The bullet went straight through the muscle, but missed most of the major blood vessels and the bone. IT seeps blood over my hands and scarf, but soon stops to a small trickle. I search Moran's body to find his next target and limp away leaning heavily on the brick wall that surrounds the park.

The nearest homeless network station is a block away. Her name is Evelyn and she is an elderly woman who lives in an abandoned bomb shelter between two apartment buildings. My journey is slow and painful, but clearly a happy one because I know that Moriarty's work is gone or fatally wounded.

Evelyn wasn't there. Little did I know that she has been sick all week with Bronchitis in a shelter kilometres away, leaving me in huge trouble. I slid down beneath an overhang and pulled my body into a ball to preserve heat. the slightly wet cold cement seeps into my body and causes painful shivering within ten minutes. My leg felt like it was on fire and had stopped bleeding through the scarf, which was good. The night passed on as I grow colder and weaker in a combination of blood loss, fatigue, exposure, and hunger. My eyes flooded to black as I fell asleep on the side of the building, not bothering to fight anymore, knowing I wouldn't die before morning.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing I hear when I stir awake is the muffled sound of a domestic in the flat closest to me. The row seems to be over the man's wife, so, they weren't married. An affair. The woman, angry of the man's wife being pregnant, is leaving, based on the sounds of keys jangling and the door slamming, but lighter footsteps and fading voices. Really it was a deduction based on footfalls and voice frequency. The basics.

The footsteps grow louder, echoing off the narrow walls of the alley. The woman is very average. Average height and weight accompanied the same nasty habit I have, smoking. She stands across from me propping herself against the stone wall of her flat and pulls out a lighter. Low quality, so she must have a job to pay for her smokes, but not one to allow her the higher quality perks.

She is oblivious to my scrutinizing stare as I sit no more than three metres away. The alleyway is dark and filled with rubbish bins and packing boxes, shielding me from her sight, but not her from mine. She flicks the lighter and the small ball of flame lights up a small radius around her body as she takes a deep drag of smoke.

I take in a breath. With her dark curly hair hidden under her hat, women's deodorant, the dark lighting, and the fact that she has lost nearly a whole stone, she is unrecognizable. I have found myself sitting outside Donovan's new flat in Brixton in major trouble.

"Glad to see you are wearing the correct deodorant now, Srg. Donovan." I sneer, pushing aside the box that is impeding her view.

She drops her smoke with a gasp, opens her mobile and uses its light to search the alley, while she backs against the wall. The light moves tumultuously around the alley in search of the voice of her 'Freak', her 'Greatest Mistake'. Also known as me.

The light scans over me, as light floods my face. I close my eyes, which are sensitive to the light that passes over them. The light moves on about a metre to my left, before jerking back quickly. The harsh light stays on my face, forcing my eyes closed.

"Mate, are you alright?" She asks taking a step forward and shining the light to my right a bit.

"Just Peachy."

"What is that smell?" She asks, looking around.

"Pry blood and that rubbish bin to your left that has a dead pigeon inside." I reply strait faced as I try to stand. Her face grimaces and she moves to her right, away from the bins.

"Blood? Bloody hell, is it yours?" She asks, taking another step forward, not noticing who I am. She really is unobservant. Idiot. She pushes on my shoulders so I stay sitting on the cold ground, and starts shining the light on my body, stopping when she found the blood stains on my trousers.

"You were shot? Why didn't you go to A&E?" She asked outraged as she tears a larger whole in my jeans.

"I technically am already dead," I shrug before smirking and adding, "Donovan."

She jumps back, her hand sliding against my leg, causing a fresh spike of pain to flair through my leg and tears my mind into pure agony. "Ow, really?" I hiss as she looks into my face for the first time.

"How do you know my name?"

"Do I really look that terrible? Think Donovan." I say as I push my hood back and pull of my heavy hat, showing my close cut black hair and face.

Her face is a mixture of extreme confusion and extreme relief. She opens her mouth, but doesn't shut it.

"Donovan, has anyone told you look like a fish, and probably have the same IQ as one, but I do give you a salute for finally leaving Anderson, he is an absolute idiot. You may have a little hope to make it out of the idiot category and into the, 'unobservant and boring category."

"But, you are dead. They saw your body. You were buried. You shouldn't exist."

"True, partially. But I can assure you, I exist very much. If I go on like this I may not exist much longer though. So if you please, I must go." I say, pushing myself up against the wall.

"NO! Sherlock, you can hardly walk. Anderson left my flat, so lean on me and I'll take you there. We can patch you up as well as we can and let you mend until you are ready. I made a mistake of letting you die once on my mistake. I'm not letting that happen again. You were never a fake were you?"

"No, Sally I wasn't. I will go with you under one condition. NO one can know about me."

"Deal," she says as she grabs my arm and helps me into her flat. She takes most of my weight, which I must say is lighter than it was before, but my leg still burns through the short journey.

Her flat is warm and small, but surprisingly clean and functional.

"I'll help you into the loo, so you can wash up a bit. Call me if you need help. We can look at your leg when you get done." She says, helping me through another door into a small washroom and turns on the shower.

"Sit in the shower and get the grime off and warm yourself a bit, I'll help you out when you are done if you stay in your pants, because I really didn't help for that."


	6. Chapter 6

It's been awhile, hasn't it. Apologies. I could lie and use the broekn computer idea, but really I just haven't had time between work, school, and Hockey sooo yeah. I don't exactly know where to go from here because my original script was douced in acid in an expirement, so this is going off edetic memory, so not the best but similar. forgive me?-ROSIE

* * *

After he gets out of the loo, with the help on Sally, he makes his way into the small den and slides onto to the couch with a sigh.

"Sherlock, you have to tell John," Sally pressures.

"Not yet. It isn't safe yet, in time I will reveal myself."

"Sherlock, you better hurry with that, John hardly speaks to Lestrade or anyone. Your brother and Mum have been donating stuff to NSY and buying the department tea and everything, your brother tries to say that it is to make up for your horrible disposition, but everyone knows it is just because he wants to protect us just like you, I like to think, did."

Really, Mycroft? He could understand Mummy, but never Mycroft.

"Your brother is starting to look anorexic, not as bad as you were at times, but still too small to be considered good for one's body. Your Mum isn't much better."

"Donovan, I will tell them as soon as I know that they won't be shot in the head as soon as I do. OK?" He snaps, scratching his scruff.

"Ta, I'm sure you know what to with this so tell me what to do," Sally says, gesturing to his leg.

"First you have to get supplies and disinfect them, then take the bullet out, clean the wound as much as possible, and use a embroidery stitch to close it before disinfecting it again and bandage it," Sherlock says, laying in the centre of the floor.

Donovan comes back with a bottle of whisky, antiseptic, an emergency aid kit, and a towel. She grimaced at the sight of the wound again or the fact that her previous enemy was laying on the floor in only pants and an old T-shirt she left out for him… Probably the combination of the two.

"Do you have any whipped topping in the spray can?"

"Yes, why?"

"It'll knock me out for a time, just grab it, trust me you don't want me conscious for this."

"I'll just get it from the kitchen," She says jogging to get it.

In a few minutes he is completely out of consciousness, allowing sally to start. "Eh, Sherlock this is repulsive."

* * *

Sherlock wakes feeling warm, stiff, and achy mid-morning the next day while Sally was reading a crappy romance in the worn arm chair. His eyes felt sticky and dry from the forced sleep that wasn't enough. He was covered in a short duvet and had a pillow under his head from Sally at some point during the night.

"Morning, Freak." Sally says, setting down her book and looking over towards Sherlock.

"Glad to see you haven't killed me yet. I should probably be on my way out." Sherlock says, slowly climbing to his feet and keeping his weight off his bad side.

"SHERLOCK! SIT DOWN!" Sally scolds, "NOW!" She adds when he just stares her down.

"I know I want you out of my flat as soon as possible, but you can barely walk and I also… acquired, some antibiotics through semi legal ways, so just wait, take them and eat something and I will drive you wherever you want to go."

Sherlock huffs and sits back on the couch, "dry toast, black tea; two sugars, and the antibiotics and a car ride and I will be free from your torturous bedside manner."  
"You are insufferable."

* * *

An hour later they were in Donovan's small cramped car driving north, Sherlock giving directions and texting his homeless network. They had found the dead body, but were worried about Sherlock, who assured them that he was fine and perfectly able to take care of the final matters by himself as long as the network didn't say anything.

"Turn left here, we are going to be driving for about an hour on this road until we hit a small town where the road breaks into two," Sherlock instructs, playing with his phone again before grabbing the newspaper he brought with him.

"Freak, where am I taking you? We left city limits a good fifteen minutes ago; who do you know that lives this far out of the way?"

"My Mother owns a small cottage out here that she hasn't been to since I was a boy. I'll stay there for a little while." Sherlock says, annoyed.

The rest of the ride was silent. Sally would drive, Sherlock would give directions and occasionally insult Sally's driving. They pulled up to a small town with the road splitting to the right of town hall and out of town and another gravel road leading up to a large estate with a large town house and a small cottage on the outskirts and a few farm houses all covered in a small layer of immaculate white snow and Christmas décor.

"Bugger," Sherlock said, seeing the decorations and small plumes of smoke emerging from the chimney.

"What now, Freak?" Donovan asks pulling to a stop.

"Well besides from the fact that you dumped Anderson, your new 'guy' is a flaming bisexual who is screwing his boss and swindling money from the company's profit and runs a side business for dealing drugs, besides the fact that I think it would be in your best interest to cut that off, my brother seems to be home."

SMACK! Donovan slaps him across the face, and turns her head out the window.

Sherlock rubs his cheek and pushes open the door and hobbles into the cold country air, smiling. The old Donovan, Freak mentality has been established.

He knows he cannot avoid his brother now, so he slowly makes his way up to the estate's main gate and pressing the intercom, "Hello, dear brother."

* * *

Short I know, but I'm slowly working on that.


End file.
